


Rescue Remedy

by BeatriceMacbeth



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatriceMacbeth/pseuds/BeatriceMacbeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm has methods of calming Nicola down that are even more effective than her rescue remedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescue Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! Shameless PWP. Enjoy.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Malcolm, I can’t fucking do this. This fucking speech is full of holes, and every fucking living Prime Minister of our Party is going to be there - I’m going to be sick.” Nicola Murray makes to bolt to the little bathroom adjoining her office, but is halted by her Director of Communications wrapping slender but strong fingers around her forearm. He’s been leaning against her desk with his arms folded over his chest, and the only thing he’s altered in order to grab her is the extension of one arm.  
“Calm the fuck down, Nic’la. There are only two members of the Living Zombie Brigade so stop being so fucking melodramatic.” She’s close to hyperventilating, so he is careful not to push her too far, goes a little easier on her than he ordinarily would. Nicola reaches past him and plucks her rescue remedy off the desk, squirting three pipettes into her mouth with abandon. Malcolm has genuine concerns about what’s in the damn stuff, but it seems to bring her some modicum of calm, so he’s not vetoed it yet. He may if someone conclusively proves there’s LSD in it.

He’s released her while she’s been chugging what he can only assume is pure alcohol with lavender fragrance, and she’s used this now found freedom to start pacing. He watches her stretching her legs as far as she can, wobbling slightly on one of her heels mid-stride.  
“And every fucking journalist in the fucking country, Malcolm. I can’t. I’m not fucking ready for this.”  
“Only the journos we invited because we knew they wouldn’t tear yeh a new arsehole if you fucked up - as you invariably will. Once again stop being so fucking melodramatic, woman.”  
“That’s really, really not helpful.” She snaps back at him over her shoulder. “Oh god I shouldn’t have worn this dress. Is it too short?” Malcolm eyes her in her neat, pleated A-line grey dress. It’s not a question she should ever expect an impartial answer to; he’d prefer it on the ground around her feet.  
Malcolm sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “The dress is fucking fine, Nic’la. Would you just stand still for one single shitting second before I get whiplash?” She rounds on him, and once again he takes in her figure in the dress. It’s perfect for the cocktail function she’s going to be addressing: demure without trying to disguise the fact that she has a figure.  
Malcolm extends his hand, mumbling “Come here.” She obliges, and the fact that she acquiesces so quickly reinforces how stressed she is. She normally argues with him a little before she succumbs to him.  
“How about we do some breathin’, yeah? In and out, nice and easy, like stiff cock in a wet hole.” The fact that he says it so soothingly makes Nicola laugh gently. Malcolm’s hands are settled lightly over her ribcage, encouraging her to breathe calmly and deeply. Once he has her in a more even breathing pattern he trails one of his hands back over her arse and sneaks it under her dress and up the back of her thigh.  
“Malcolm, we don’t have time.” Nicola mumbles, but her eyes are already darkening with desire. The smile that touches his lips is something in the realm of predatory, and Nicola is putty in his hands. Malcolm glances at the clock opposite her desk and does a quick calculation. He can get her off in three minutes and twenty seven seconds if he needs to; he should allow about thirty seconds to make sure she can walk. He’s been telling her they need to leave here in eleven minutes to get to the event on time, but in reality it’s sixteen.  
“You need calmin’ down and if you have any more of that rescue remedy you’ll fail a drug screen.” He pecks a favoured place near her ear, mumbling “Just relax for me, pet.”  
He trails his hand around her leg and moves her pants aside.  
“So fucking wet already, Nic’la.” Malcolm purrs, dipping his middle finger into her slowly. A little mewling noise escapes the back of Nicola’s throat. “Sometimes I think you just walk around Whitehall like this all the time, always waitin’ for me to fuck you.”  
“Oh god, Malcolm.” She moves to kiss him, but he ducks away.  
“No time for fresh lipstick, darlin’.” He says, an apologetic note in his voice.  
With nothing else to do, Nicola drops her head to curve of his neck and drapes her arms over his shoulders, steadying herself against him. She is panting softly against his neck, and as he slides a second and third finger inside her dripping cunt, he feels her begin to tremble.  
“Christ you’re tight.” Malcolm rasps, nipping at her ear hard enough to sting but lightly enough so that the redness will subside.  
“Please, Malcolm. Please.” Her words tremble violently as she grinds her hips against his hand, rocking in time with his exquisitely thrusting fingers.  
“Tell me wha’ you want, pet.” Malcolm instructs, taking extreme pleasure in making her give him instructions.  
“More. Fuck, harder. Please” To Malcolm, Nicola Murray is always at her best when she is begging him. He doesn’t care what she is begging him for, he just likes to make her plead with him, likes to have her know she is at his mercy. He obliges her, pumping his fingers into her harder and teasing her clit with his thumb while he does. He can feel her muscles beginning to flutter around his fingers. She is deliciously close, and Malcolm is approaching a new record.  
“Just let go for me, pet.” He instructs her softly, moving his free hand around to knead her arse. Usually he would opt for her breast, but he is trying not to wrinkle her dress.  
The pressure of his fingers pounding in and out of her, his thumb working her swollen clit so expertly has Nicola’s head swimming, and she swears softly against his neck.  
“One day I’m going to write a book. It’s going to have a whole chapter on the many ways I fucked Prime Minister Nic’la Murray against the Leader of the Opposition’s desk.”  
His words bring her undone, and Malcolm feels her clench hard around his fingers. When all else fails, appealing to her ambition is still a sure way make Nicola come quickly and hard around him. It’s a skill he cruelly uses to his advantage whenever he can.  
“Jesus fucking Christ, Malcolm.” She gasps, clinging onto him as if he is all that is keeping her on planet Earth.  
He draws out her orgasm as long as he can before turning his attention to the clock on the wall and allowing her thirty seconds for her legs to re-solidify. He holds her in his arms while her breathing evens, the scent of her hair and her sex pervading the air. At moments like these Malcolm can pretend they are whatever he likes.  
When she lifts her head from his shoulder and meets his eyes, he is satisfied to see her pupils blown wide with pleasure. Finally he withdraws his fingers from her core and sucks them clean while keeping his eyes locked on hers. Nicola wants to kiss him, wants to taste herself on his tongue. In conversation she is always secretly begging for him to lose the ability to use the godforsaken appendage, but it is magical against hers, and there is little more she wants in the world right now than to suck his tongue into her mouth.  
“Feeling better abou’ the speech?” He queries earnestly.  
Her eyes gleam wickedly. “What fucking speech?”  
Malcolm folds his arms over his chest again, his lips curling smugly.  
“Get in the fucking car, then.” 

When she slides into the back of the car, Ollie looks her over with a degree of trepidation. “You okay, Nicola? You look a bit flushed.”  
Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear primly, Nicola offers Ollie a peaceful smile and the words, “No, all fine, Ollie.”  
“Getting all weak-kneed about addressing the Party Grandees?”  
Nicola’s eyes flit up to Malcolm, sitting opposite her and pretending to be engrossed in his BlackBerry. His eyes lock onto hers without him adjusting the angle of his head so only she can see his smirk.  
“Yes.” Nicola agrees, eyes twinkling conspiratorially. “Something like that.”


End file.
